Difference
by Silvi Henna
Summary: Sometimes Dean wishes for things to have turned out differently.


**Title: **Difference  
**Author: **Silvi Henna  
**Fandom: **Supernatural  
**Genre: **Angst/Pathos  
**Spoilers: **None  
**Warnings: **Alternate Universe (AU), implied!Wincest  
**Word count:** 1162  
**Completed:** Yes  
**  
Notes**: This ficlett has gone through a once over by BdrixHaettC. Apart from that it's un-betaed.

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**Summary: **Sometimes Dean wishes for things to have turned out differently.

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On rare occasions the thought is able to sneak past his defenses; it'll come to the forefront of his mind in a way that he isn't able to push away, to shove back into those parts he keeps everything else he doesn't want to think about.

When that happens, Dean rarely lets it linger. He is unable to ignore it but he never lets it linger. He can't afford it. Not now, not ever for fear of what it'll do to him, to them.

He doesn't know if Sam is able to pick up on any of it.

_If only he hadn't woken up…_

He doesn't know if _that_ is something his brother can do, but he wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that _yes, he could_. It's… unsettling how unsafe he feels in his own head, like he can't relax anymore, not really.

He wonders how much that has to do with how things are, what's happened to him, and how much that has to do with the look he thinks he sometimes catches in Sam's eyes; the ghost of things better left unmentioned for fear it'll tear _them_ apart. He doubts it's his brother's intention to appear anything else than what he wants to show, and those glimpses are unintentional. He shouldn't worry for he plays a good game.

If he hadn't known his brother as well as he did he would've been as fooled as anyone else. No, not everyone else… He knew his Dad saw it too. And he was as worried about it as Dean was uneased. It's a comfort that _the looks_ are coming fewer times and further apart. The thought that maybe Sam is getting better at hiding in plain sight is not something he _ever_ let himself dwell on.

There was nothing they could do – or at least that they'd be willing to do. To much time has gone past - and didn't that illicit a bone deep shudder – and what ever Sam needed they would give it to him. They always did.

No words or action could ever cover what they owed him.

It didn't stop him from quietly wishing he could weep at what had been lost, though. And he's the guy that doesn't do chick-flick moments, not even now. But if there was any situation set up for one, it'd be their life as it stood now.

Bending over the sink, the water filling the bathroom with a white noise, his knuckles turns white where they are gripping the porcelain.

Forcing himself to let go of the death grip he has on the edge he shoves them under the warm water. He's fighting to keep his mind blank and he doesn't feel his skin turn red, doesn't notice a thing, until he feels strong hands wrap around his wrists and gently pull his hands from the assault.

Blinking, it took a moment for the world to come back into focus, and the first thing he notices is that the one holding him isn't his Dad, as he had originally thought, but Sam. _Guess he's back. _

If he concentrated he could hear Dad outside shifting through the pages of his latest purchase. The absence of nearby sounds makes him focus back on his brother and he sees from the peripheral vision that he had just turn off the faucet.

The sudden feel of cold water splashing down makes him look down. He hadn't noticed that Sam had brought a glass of water with him, and it makes him wonder if his brother had sensed him, taking a look at his face Dean could see that he didn't look particularly surprised. Then again, he never did these days.

He didn't look upset either. Dean wonders if his own despondency has something to do with him feeling so distant and distracted. He wouldn't put it past himself. Things were definitely weird in Winchesterville.

Sam isn't meeting his eyes though and that makes him weary.

He peered closer, narrowing his eyes. "Sam?" he whispers.

Sam seamed focused on his hands, passing his long fingers over the reddened skin, turning them every which way – Dean lets him – looking for damage. He seamed to relax only when he found none as Dean knew he wouldn't.

"Sam?" he tries again. This time the sound of his voice made his brother look up, his sharp eyes seemingly nailing him to the spot. He moves closer and Dean had a sudden whiff of _Dad_, so unmistakable and familiar that it made his stomach clench, and yet, he refused to follow that thought back to its source.

In spite of what he suspects Dean leans into the touch when Sam rest his big palm against the side of his face and he can't stop himself from leaning forward when Sam lets his hand slip down his neck – where it briefly pauses as if to reassure himself of the steady pulse beneath – and as he steps back and leaves the bathroom, taking the now empty glass with him, he is both relived and disappointed.

Taking a deep breath suppressing the shiver that wants to break out, Dean wills his heart to slow down. The skin on his hands is beginning to tingle and for a moment Dean welcomes the discomfort before he pushes it to the back of his mind like he does with everything else these days.

It was nothing but an inconvenience anyway. Insignificant, really.

Turning back to the sink Dean turns the faucet on but this time to cold. He only keeps it open long enough to splash some water onto his face. The door Sam left slightly ajar as he left is enough to make the mist that had filled the space and turned everything diffused, quickly dissipate.

Rolling his head to get the kink out of his neck that cramped his shoulders his eyes fell on his blurry reflection.

Dean shakes his head. The mirror was obscured by the condensation that still clings to its surface even though the air was now clear, making his reflection blurry. He didn't want to, but knew he was going to do it anyway. Things had changed to become unrecognizable, and the only comfort he could draw was from the fact that at least they were together – the three of them, and that made things bearable. Like it always had.

If this hadn't been what he had envision for them at the end of the road… well it was par for the course for being a Winchester. When had fate _not_ screwed them over?

Whatever happened that fateful day he knows it has something to do with the reflection he sees whenever he looks into a mirror.

Reaching out he passed his forearm across the smooth glass, swallowing compulsively. It revealed the same freckled face he had seen for the last 58 years.

The real kicker?

He didn't look a day over 27.

**The End.**


End file.
